First Loss
by reiver393
Summary: Ecthelion is dead. Denethor seeks out his grieving son for a talk.


This is a not for profit work of fan fiction using characters and places belonging to JRR Tolkien.

**Title** - First Loss

Words - 3079

Summary - Ecthelion is dead. Denethor seeks out his grieving son for a talk.

Characters – Boromir and Denethor.

The large silver bowl had not yet been moved. It was still in its place between the carved wooden horse and the wine decanter on top of the tall oak bookcase. The boy was of a height now that he needed no help to reach into it. Standing on tiptoe, his fingers grasped what he had come for, picked it out and placed it into his tunic pocket. Quietly, stealthily, he slipped from the room.

The alarm was called after he had been gone only a few minutes, the young nursemaid tearful as she explained how he had vanished while she turned her back to ready his baby brother for bed. His mother, wearied by sorrow and unwilling to cope with any more concerns, gave way to an uncharacteristic outburst of temper and the nursemaid, who bore the brunt of her sharp words, was sent from the room, pale faced and weeping. In her elder son's absence, the remainder of Finduilas's fury was poured over her husband before she stalked off into the nursery, passing the responsibility of finding the boy onto the broad shoulders of his father.

But those shoulders already had enough to bear and it was one extra burden Denethor could well do without. His first reaction was not concern for his son's welfare, but, alike to his wife, it was anger. He began to work up a rage against the child's thoughtlessness in causing trouble and upsetting his mother at this time, but then, just as quickly as the anger had begun, it ceased.

Taking deep breath he uncurled his fisted hands, releasing his displeasure. The boy was, he chided himself severely, just a child, a young child, trying to understand for the first time about loss and grief. And somewhere at the back of his tired mind niggled a question asked of him at breakfast by his unhappy son, which he knew he had impatiently brushed aside. The boy had not pursued the matter further, for which at the time he was grateful, but knowing him as he did, Denethor knew it would not have gone unforgotten.

Calmer now, he sought out his wife, assured her that he was certain he knew where to find their son and that he would seek him out himself. For the beleaguered Steward it was a relief to distance himself from the emotional women and the stifling atmosphere of the house. He stepped out into the refreshing, clean air of the courtyard and made his way down to the stables.

His son was not attempting to hide. He had pulled a hay bale up to the stall door to stand on and his arms were wrapped around the horse's neck, his face pressed into its mane. The new Steward of Gondor stood and watched him for a few moments before he walked closer, hearing the lilt of the childish voice, his words inaudible as he talked into the horse's ear.

"Boromir." the man's tone of voice was gentle, but still the boy tensed.

"Boromir." his father repeated more harshly, and this time the child turned to the sound of command, his eyes both wary and defiant. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to tell Bara why grandfather would not be coming to see him any more. I thought he would be sad and lonely." came the quiet explanation.

Denethor nodded. "I see."

Encouraged that he had not immediately received a scolding, Boromir spoke again. "I took an apple from the bowl in grandfather's room for him."

His father stepped forwards to stroke the animal, murmuring calming words as he patted the soft nose. He was very fond of this faithful old horse, a gift from Thengel, King of Rohan, to his father. The old Steward on his noble mount had been a familiar sight in Minas Tirith over the years and the citizens, who had great respect for the man, had watched with much affection as the two had grown old together.

"And just how did you manage to slip past the Guards this time?"

Although it was asked as an innocent query, there was a note of censure there that was not lost on the boy. Boromir lowered his head, his heart all of a sudden beating faster as he remembered the punishment he had received last time he had dared to leave the Citadel without permission and just how furious his parents had been with him.

Now there was no loving grandfather to run to for comfort. There never would be again.

However, he had learned many lessons from his grandfather, the need for honesty even in the face of a harsh penalty being just one of them. He straightened his shoulders before replying, "I waited until the musicians and all the children who will sing at the service for grandfather were leaving the hall. Then I hid amongst them and the Guards did not see me. I... I'm sorry, father."

"So you should be. You know well enough that you are forbidden to leave the Citadel." Denethor made a mental note to have a word with the Tower Guard Captain for Boromir's safety was paramount and his cunning, even at barely six years old, was not to be underestimated.

A glimmer of fear appeared in the boy's eyes. His lips pursed tightly together as he awaited the severe reprimand that would surely come. Although he met his father's gaze without faltering, it dismayed the man to be the cause of further upset. He hastily swallowed the words that would only wound his son further.

"We will not discuss it now." He waved his hand, dismissing the matter. In truth he was impressed by his son's actions and this night Denethor really had no stomach for a confrontation.

In a kinder voice he said "You know, I would have brought you to see Bara had you asked me."

"But you are always very busy." Boromir risked a mild rebuke.

"Yes, I am," Denethor agreed, "though I should not have been so engrossed with work that I did not realise Bara would be feeling lonely, as you did. It was most kind of you to think of him but you know you were wrong to come here alone."

"I know, but I had to come by myself because … because there was no-one to bring me!" his son's frustration with the restrictions placed on him boiled over into a sudden fit of anger. "I asked my tutor but he told me I wasn't allowed to leave the house then when I asked Uncle Imrahil if he would bring me he got cross and told me I was being a pest and to be quiet. Even Mama was angry with me. She said she was tired of me getting in everybody's way. She sent me to the nursery to play with Faramir but I am not a baby any more and he's boring. He can't do anything! It wasn't fair!"

"So you waited all day for the right moment to escape?" his father masked a smile.

"I had to. Grandfather brought me here often so I did not get lost and I was going to come straight home again, I promise." Boromir, suddenly embarrassed by his outburst, dropped his eyes to study his boots. When his father made no further comment, after a moments silence he dared to look up at him. All the furious resentment had drained from his young face to be replaced with fresh apprehension. "Are you very angry with me, father?" he asked.

Denethor shook his head. "No. No, I am not angry with you. I was, for you distressed your mother with your disappearing act and that was unthinking of you." He saw the boy's eyes cloud with concern and hurried to put his mind at rest. "But worry not. It is a tender heart you have, Boromir, and when Mama knows why you ran away she will understand. You are not in any trouble. Not tonight."

Relief washed away the anxiety on his pale face. He stared down at the ground for another moment then met his father's eyes again. The question he had asked at breakfast at last arose.

"Father, who will care for Bara now?"

Denethor let his head rest wearily against the horse's neck for a few seconds before replying "his groom will continue to see to his needs, but I think it would be your grandfather's wish that you and I should also help to care for him. Do you think so?"

He saw the boy's head nod in reply.

Then he asked quietly, "Boromir, what did you tell Bara about your grandfather?"

There was a long pause before the boy answered. "I … I told him grandfather would not be coming to ride him any more because he had been ill again, that he had been very tired," his voice cracked but he bravely continued, "and that the Healers could not ... they could not make him well this time. I said that grandfather was... that he was dead and he could not ... he would never be…" he tailed off, lips quivering and eyes filling with new tears, appealing to his father for help.

The man moved swiftly to scoop him up into his arms and seating himself on the bale, he took the boy onto his lap. "You have done well, my son," he murmured, "you have said all the right things. Bara will understand."

"But where has grandfather gone?" Boromir buried his face into Denethor's shoulder, arms curling round his father's neck, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Where is he?"

For once, the father was as lost as the son, with no certain answer to comfort him and no words that would offer complete reassurance. Denethor had his own personal beliefs about death that he preferred to keep deeply buried.

Having served for many years in Gondor's army he had seen more than enough of it. His sword had dealt death swiftly and with unerring accuracy, the blade unforgiving as it sliced and gutted those who stood against him. His arrows and knives had time and again found their mark; even his bare hands had wrung the life from an enemy when he had been locked in a desperate fight for his own survival. Too often had he gazed into the faces of his own men as they passed from the world and those many dying eyes haunted his dreams; their anger, desperation and terror forcing him to a trembling wakefulness. There was nothing about death that brought him any comfort or consolation. He had tested the beliefs taught to him from an early age and on the reality of the battlefield had found them sorely wanting.

He feared aught he might say would give little comfort to Boromir. His son was yet young; it might be hard for him to grasp the concept most adults in Gondor accepted yet he did not wish to lie. Equally he had no intention of confusing him further by exposing him to the other various views that were bandied about to console the bereaved. Rebirth into another life. Eternal sleep. Infinite peace in another more spiritual world. Or, as Denethor at heart suspected, that there was really nothing, just an endless, cold darkness. Whatever he might say he did not wish for the child to be frightened or left with distressing imaginings.

Since Ecthelion's death the previous day, Denethor had tried not to think too hard on his own opinions. "I do not know, Boromir." He at last admitted. "I wish that I did and that I had words to help heal your heart."

He rested his head back against the rough wood of the stall door waiting patiently for the boy's storm of tears to run its course. Once he felt him beginning to quieten he said, "Perhaps I can tell you what is thought by many to be the truth. It is what Mama likes to believe."

Endeavouring to frame his explanation so his son would understand he said, "You see, no-one knows truly what happens when we die but most people deem we are both body and spirit. While we have no further use for our physical body they like to think there is a very special place our spirits go to, a place where no fears exist and all our suffering and pain are ended. Can you understand that idea?"

Through his sniffles Boromir said, "I think so." He rubbed at his eyes with a grubby hand. "Will grandfather be feeling better then if he is in that place?"

"He will not be in pain any more for which we must be glad." Denethor's memories of Ecthelion's last few hours when the Healers potions were no longer strong enough to afford him relief from the agony of his ills were not happy ones. "Mama believes that he is resting peacefully with those he loved who died before him by his side and that they are caring for him now. Moreover, because she loved grandfather and misses him so much, Mama trusts that one day we will meet him again. She also likes to think that somehow he can see us and can still guide us and love us from where he is."

His brief explanation of his wife's ideas, far-fetched and fanciful to his mind, sounded most unsatisfactory to him but it seemed to suit Boromir for Denethor felt the tension melt from his son's body. He bent down to place a comforting kiss on his brow.

"Do you believe those things like Mama does?" came a tearful whisper.

"I think they are very nice thoughts." He hedged. "They bring Mama much comfort and that is a good thing."

Boromir thought for a minute then squirmed to sit up straight. "If it is true, father, and grandfather can see us then he will want to see Bara too, will he not?" he asked, wiping his nose on his tunic sleeve.

"I'm sure he would want to see Bara." The man agreed. He felt small fingers begin to idly fiddle with the clasp on his cloak.

After another moments thought Boromir said, "I'm sad that Faramir did not have the chance to go for walks with grandfather like I did."

"Ah, but you will be able to share your memories with him when you are both older. Hold on to them Boromir, for they will one day be important to your brother." Denethor tilted the boy's face up to look into his eyes. "If you keep your loved ones alive in here, in your heart," he touched his son's chest lightly with his fingertips, "then wherever you are you will never be truly alone."

A small smile crossed Boromir's face.

"And it is important that we honour his memory by carrying on his work." Denethor continued. "We must live our lives as well as he did for your grandfather led our people with firmness and compassion through many difficult times. That burden now falls to me and, one day, a long time off in the future, it will fall to you. Always remember what a well loved Steward and valiant warrior he was for Gondor."

"I will remember." Fresh tears began to trickle from his eyes. "I want to be a warrior for Gondor like grandfather and you."

"And you will be, Boromir. You will be." Denethor gently wiped the tears away and Boromir did not hear the deep note of melancholy in his voice. For though his son was unaware of the desperate situation facing Gondor and the consummate evil of her enemies, Denethor was not. As a father he dreaded his beloved son having to stand before those enemies when he was grown even as he, as his Steward and Liege lord, would demand that he must. He hitched the boy closer to him, holding him pressed against his heart; eyes squeezed shut against his own tears, his sense of foreboding and the portent of a most terrible loss.

They sat for several more minutes, Boromir content to be surrounded by the safe warmth of his father's arms. When finally he stirred, his hand fell onto his father's hand and his fingers touched something he had not felt there before. Opening his eyes wide, he saw the heavy, ornate Steward's ring encircling Denethor's second finger.

"You are the Steward now." He said, as if the fact had only just dawned on him.

"Yes. I am." Denethor replied. "And you, Boromir, as my elder son, will be known henceforth as the Steward's Heir."

The boy's eyes narrowed again as he digested this new information. "Uncle Imrahil is an heir, is he not?"

"He is indeed."

"And is Faramir also?"

"No, only my firstborn can hold that position."

"But," Boromir's brow furrowed, "uncle is not grandfather Adrahil's firstborn. Mama and Aunt Ivriniel are older."

Denethor for once cursed his son's sharp mind. "He is Adrahil's heir because he is his son even though he is not his firstborn."

Boromir's frown relaxed as he accepted the simple explanation. As his father had no desire to have a conversation on the potentially complicated rules of succession, he was relieved when the boy did not question him further.

"Does Mama know I am an heir now?" his son queried instead.

Denethor chuckled. "Yes, she does. But, Boromir," he took the opportunity to set the boy to his feet and stand himself, "what she does not know is where you are and she will be growing anxious. Let us go home and you can tell her that you were comforting Bara."

He lifted his son up to give the horse a final pat, and then put him on the ground once more.

"We will come and see Bara again soon, won't we?" Boromir's eyes were dry now, looking up at him, pleading.

The Steward nodded his head. "If you can get up very early tomorrow morning, I promise that we will ride Bara out to the river, as you and grandfather used to do."

The child accepted the promise with a brave smile. "I think grandfather would like to see us do that."

Denethor felt for the small hand. His son would survive this blow. There would, no doubt, be more tears and more questions, but his young heart, though broken now, would mend. Of that he was sure.

"Yes, Boromir, I think he would." he said.


End file.
